VIII-Póg Mo Thóin (Ronan, OPEN)

[Conall Saint Albans]

History is made by stupid people
Clever people wouldn't even try
If you want a place in the history books
Do something dumb before you die

Conall Saint Albans

3rd Avenue & 62nd Street
Póg Mo Thóin: A Thread and Fusion Pub
Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York

[dropcap]Life hadn't treated him very well for the last year. He'd lost both Charlotte and Janet. He knew that Charlotte was still alive. Janet's duty with the Company had called her overseas, and in spite of his constant attempts, he'd lost touch with her. The day before she'd gone missing, he'd picked out the perfect engagement ring for her—one which he now wore around a thin silver chain around his neck in the hopes that she would one day return to his embrace.

The two massive losses had sent him spiralling into a deep depression, one which only his brother had been able to pry him out of after several months. His bills had gone unpaid. He'd been evicted. All of his belongings had either been auctioned off or sold to pay off various debts, with the exception of his textile tools and materials with which he refused to part. As long as he had access to a needle and thread, he would be able to eke out a living.

For a time, he'd lived on the run, travelling from truck stop to truck stop in the signature pink Peterbilt his brother had bestowed upon him as a gift. Davin had always been the more mechanically-inclined of the two siblings whilst Conall's interests had always lain more in how to keep things knitted together. Their father was just as adept at changing the oil in a classic car as he was when it came to darning a sock. He could flit effortlessly from fixing a carburetor to knitting an ornate, cable-stitch sweater.

Conall spent several months travelling the country, fancying himself as being a bit of a nomad until he ended up on his brother's doorstep in Redding, California, nearly three thousand miles from where he'd began his trek. For close to a year, he worked a handful of odd jobs and had even taken up studying the history of textile-making at The Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles. Having never advanced to the collegiate level of his education, Conall's former coworkers with whom he was still on good terms had curried favour with the admissions staff, and had encouraged him to send in his portfolio of work. Never having been one for the classroom, he took to the class quite eagerly. If there was one thing he knew in the world better than women, it was the creation of fabric.

Davin also encouraged him to stay in Los Angeles where he could pursue his education, and as much as Conall hated it, his brother had voluntarily paid his way. FIDM didn't have very many scholarships, and the ones that they did offer were well out of his reach. Even so, when it came to fabric and creating with it works of art, Conall felt completely within his element. He knitted superhero costumes in his spare time when he could find the yarn, and had even been tasked with creating a number of handspun outfits for a colonial-era miniseries. Over the span of the next two years, he'd earned a coveted degree in Fashion Knitwear Design. He'd never considered himself to be a scholar, nor did he ever believe his designs would ever make it to the runway, but he wasn't in the textile business to lead a grandiose lifestyle.

The degree had opened several doors for him in terms of financing his dreams, and with the money he'd saved up while living and working in the mountainous Northern California wilderness, he had enough to rent out a space in Manhattan's Upper East Side where he'd opened his own bespoke shop with a modern twist. And at his brother's behest, he'd christened it with a name any full-blooded Irishman would appreciate: Póg Mo Thóin: A Thread and Fusion Pub. He accepted customers from all walks of life, from the broke college student looking to have a beer while waiting for a pair of jeans to be patched up to a high-level executive jonesing for glass of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild while being measured for a pair of finely-combed black slacks. It was certainly the first shop of its kind, and many of his initial reviewers hadn't taken very nicely to the concept of a combined tailor shop and pub.









But he was Conall Saint Albans.








Therefore he gave absolutely zero fucks what anyone else thought about the most unusual business venture. They were probably jealous that they hadn't come up with the idea first. He'd paid for his liquor license, so what was the problem?

The entire make-up of the business was a large, open studio floorplan. The bar formed a large ring in the centre, and was essentially the heart of the building. Fabric spools, swatches, and samples littered the back end of the building in organised chaos while the front end was reserved mostly for merchandising and measuring. The sewing room where the real magic happened was located in an upstairs loft which doubled as his living quarters.

For the time being, he was happy to sit at the bar and make love to his strawberry daiquiri with his lips.

“You should really think of opening a green house or something on the roof.” Katherine Finnegan was the newest addition to his staff. She was a spritely twenty two year old with aspirations of becoming a master chef. For now, however, she was content with learning everything there was about being a bartender without the additional stress of learning how to be a bouncer in a biker bar. Even though Póg Mo Thóin had been known to host the occasional Outlaw or Hell's Angels, Conall's mere presence was sufficient to keep them in line. “I could grow all sorts of really interesting organic fruits and vegetables if you did . . . ”

It wasn't the first time she'd brought up the idea to him, but honestly? The last thing he needed right now was for the cops to bust him for growing several kilogrammes of illegal marijuana on his roof. He lifted his eyes from his drink long enough to give her a disapproving look. Katherine was old enough to be considered his younger sister and he often thought of her as such. As much as he enjoyed taking the occasional bong hit after a stressful day, he really didn't relish the idea of getting the shit beat out of him by the NYPD.

“If yeh wan' a green'ouse, go an' build one y'self. I ent fuckin' 'elpin'--” He had more of a retort built up, but completely lost the emotion behind his words when he heard the tinkling sound of door opening, signalling the entrance of a new customer. Conall rotated around on his stool and stood up. He'd specifically bought this space so that it could accommodate his six and a half foot tall frame without leaving him feeling claustrophobic. The high ceilings helped immensely.

Kat rolled her eyes at him as soon as his back was turned and she offered up a warm smile to the young man who'd just entered the pub.

Had she just rolled her eyes at him? She'd totally just rolled her eyes at him. He could hear it. “An' don' go feckin' rollin' yer eyes at me. I can feckin' 'ear it.”

Ugh, why was it that he could nearly read her mind? Must have been a weird shapeshifter thing. God, she hoped that he couldn't hear her when she was having a pee in the loo. She would have been mortified. “Oh, go bugger off an' 'elp th' kid who just walked in. Quit bein' a pain in me arse.” Conall might have been a shapeshifter, but she was a perfect mimic. She could perfectly reconstruct any sound, accent, or voice she'd ever heard in her life. If she didn't make it as a chef, maybe she could make it as a celebrity impersonator?

Conall sighed. “Please ignore my coworker. She doesn't come 'ere very often.”

“ . . . come 'ere very often . . . ”

“I fuckin' swear it's like having a bloody fuckin' parrot. Anyways, can I get yeh a drink or something first? What're yeh in th' market for?”[/dropcap]

♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂

♂ Word count: 1471
♂ Mood: Numb.
♂ Outfit: eh, we'll go with this
♂ Lyrics / Quote: History is Made by Stupid People, The Arrogant Worms
♂ Illustrations: None.
♂ Comment / Informational links: Included in post.

[Ronan MacGuinness]

Theres a county map to go on the wall,
A hurling stick & a shinty ball,
The bric, the brac, the craic & all,
Let's call it an Irish pub!

Ronan MacGuinness had found the place quite by coincidence, really. One group of his patrons had been discussing the increasing prevalence of Irish pub themed establishments in Manhattan, and Ronan's eyebrows had nearly ascended to the heavens when he overheard that one such business was in the business of custom tailoring. That was something to behold, he figured. And he had money to burn, so why not try the threads? Drinking and Ronan MacGuinness had broken up with each other, and it was going to stay that way. But high quality fashion? Some friendships never end.

He had brought his godson Mike Lane along, and he was thinking to buy the kid something decent to wear. The boy had fine clothes sure, but nothing befitting a lad that Ronan considered like one of his own children. He was moving on up in the world, and his kin would have the benefit of that. It was the way Ronan had been raised, after all. You do right by your own. Not by blood were they related, but by honor. For an Irishman that was just the same as blood. Well, for a decent Irishman. Ronan had been trying all this time to earn that distinction, and he finally had.

Pog Mo Thoin, it was called. He was amused, to say the least. It was something he might have done with his own place, had his wife not been a factor. She would have disapproved, surely. Just as well, the restaurant was supposed to have that warm family atmosphere after all. Not such a welcoming name the proprietor of this establishment had chosen, but it was in the Irish spirit.

The employee-employer relationship he observed wasn't so different from so many of his own. He had to laugh at what little he had heard of the exchange. The man running the business had an unmistakable accent, and it honestly put Ronan to shame. He was quite a bit more assimilated, sadly. Been too long out of Boston, maybe.

“I fuckin' swear it's like having a bloody fuckin' parrot. Anyways, can I get yeh a drink or something first? What're yeh in th' market for?”


"Nice place, you got here," Ronan said, " I won't be takin' any drink myself, nor the lad I should hope...we're here for some decent clothes. I can't be havin' my godson walkin' about town like a common beggarman, can I?"

He extended his hand, " Name's Ronan MacGuinness, late addition to the Watcher's PI, and an entrepeneurial man myself, being the owner of the MacGuinness Tavern Restaurant, perhaps you've heard of it? We've expanded in the last few months, and we're gettin' a place in Boston."

[Micah Walker]

Mike Lane
Póg Mo Thóin
Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York

Mike was excited that another year of college had come and gone. He was twenty years old and only had one more year of schooling left. What he was going to do after that was a mystery. Before he knew it he would have a degree in marine biology and a minor in photographer. But really, it was really just something he needed to do to make his life feel a little more normal. His future was pretty much already set, he was with the Watchers P.I and as far as he knew he’d always be helping others. But just in case everything went downhill, he needed something to fall back on, something normal to cover up the fact he is a young vigilante with an undying need to help and save people.

Lately he had been traveling back and forth from Vegas. He had been keeping an eye of a few villains ever since everyone got their powers back a few months ago. Adrian Kilvayne was always up to no good, not to mention his own brother Derek, who he recently found out was bad to the bone.

Another good reason to get together with his God Father. He had a lot to share.

Ronan, his God father, thought it would be a good idea to stop by this new place in the upper east side of New York with a fancy sounding name that Mike could not for the life of him remember. But apparently it was both a pub and place for clothes. His God Father was very big on the whole Irish pride thing, and apparently the owner of this place was, too. Mike had some Irish in him, so he couldn’t exactly complain. It was some nice bonding time for him and Ronan. He hadn’t seen him awhile with everything they both had going on, even though they were both Watchers, they still seemed to miss each other around more than they probably should. Mike didn’t even have a partner anymore, now that Chris is gone and left Mike his shiny red Corvette.

Mike and Ronan made their way inside after eventually finding their way there. It had a nice atmosphere to it. Ronan walked ahead and Mike lagged behind, looking around at it. He stopped when he heard a very familiar accent coming from where Ronan had just went. “I fuckin' swear it's like having a bloody fuckin' parrot. Anyways, can I get yeh a drink or something first? What're yeh in th' market for?” Mike smirked, shaking his head. Could that really be him? He asked himself as he continued making his way over to where Ronan was.

"Nice place, you got here, I won't be takin' any drink myself, nor the lad I should hope...we're here for some decent clothes. I can't be havin' my godson walkin' about town like a common beggarman, can I?" Mike heard what his God father was saying loud and clear. He shook his head at him as he came up from behind him, showing himself as he chuckled. “Nice Uncle Ronan, very nice.” He smirked, looking over to Conall. He a grin appeared on his face as he shook his head and crossed his arms. “Well, well, well I thought I heard the sound of a familiar skinwalker in here.” He smiled over at Conall, leaning against the bar. He couldn’t believe it was actually Conall. He hadn’t seen him in years. About three years, if he was remembering correctly.

"Name's Ronan MacGuinness, late addition to the Watcher's PI, and an entrepeneurial man myself, being the owner of the MacGuinness Tavern Restaurant, perhaps you've heard of it? We've expanded in the last few months, and we're gettin' a place in Boston." Mike listened and smirked. Watching his Uncle meet the first special Mike ever met on the day he manifested, it was all so weird. “And you already know me.” He said obviously with a smirk.

“I’m also a Watcher now too, by the way. Apparently I joined a few months after you parted from it.” He said with a shrug. He was glad to see Conall was still alive and well. It had been over two years since he saw him, back when they both at that Special’s disease. But now here they both were, meeting again randomly.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever see the day again.

Tag: Conall.
Mood: Museful!
Words: Pfft, idk.
Notes: I did good, yes?

[/justify]

[Conall Saint Albans]

I'm a sailor peg
And I lost my leg
I climbed up the topsails
I lost my leg

Conall Saint Albans

3rd Avenue & 62nd Street
Póg Mo Thóin: A Thread and Fusion Pub
Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York

[dropcap]An Irishman who didn't drink? They were a rare breed. Come to think of it, it was a miracle that he actually got any work done during the day with all the bottles of whiskey around.

" I won't be takin' any drink myself, nor the lad I should hope...we're here for some decent clothes. I can't be havin' my godson walkin' about town like a common beggarman, can I?"

Having set up shot in the Upper East Side, most of his clientele were rich businessmen—the kind of guys he probably would have curbstomped on the street if they looked at him wrong. But they paid him good money and sent him travelling around the world to find the best fabrics that money could buy.

“'Course not.” He'd just gotten several spools of finely-woven alpaca wool that would make an incredibly dapper-looking suit. Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten around to dying them just yet. Most of his dyes were also custom made to order after the client had chosen a particular colour swatch.

Conall took the man's extended hand in a warm, strong handshake. He'd always found that you could learn a lot about a person through their handshake. People with clammy hands tended to be nervous. People with weak hands tended to have little self-confidence. People who squeezed too hard and tried to exert their strength were arrogant. This handshake felt confident. " Name's Ronan MacGuinness, late addition to the Watcher's PI, and an entrepeneurial man myself, being the owner of the MacGuinness Tavern Restaurant, perhaps you've heard of it? We've expanded in the last few months, and we're gettin' a place in Boston."

“So I see yeh're shippin' up t' Boston, eh?” He was a horrible Irishman. He might have been born in the land of Eire, but he'd never once stepped foot in Boston. He never really had a need to. All of his family was either here in New York, out in the mountains of northern California, or back at home in Cork. “Where's y' god son? I take it 'e's with you?”

He hadn't been paying much attention to the young man who'd walked through the door several steps behind his godfather—at least not until he started talking. His voice sounded incredibly familiar. “Well, well, well I thought I heard the sound of a familiar skinwalker in here.”

And then realisation dawned on him. “Mike!” Conall walked over to the bar and patted him heartily on the back. “Sorry, it's been a while. How yeh been, lad?” The last time he'd seen the kid, he'd been a teenager trying to cut his teeth on getting into the Watcher's P.I. Unfortunately for Conall, his own life had taken several unforeseeable drastic turns in the same span of time, and he really didn't feel like taking a trip down memory lane so soon. Hopefully he could just skirt around the issue politely enough if they asked.

“Yeh in the market f'r anything in particular? I can show yeh around the place. All th' magic 'appens upstairs. 'S where I keep all the fabric and sewin' supplies. The first floor is divided into th' bar and th' bespoke shop. Y' can choose the fabrics an colours y' want down here, an I can take yer measurements.” He was never very far from a lengthy tape measure now. They were stashed all over the shop, even in the restrooms. Most of his staff bought them as gag gifts since he was constantly losing or misplacing them. Conall chuckled to himself. Eh, at least they cared, right?[/dropcap]

♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂ ♂

♂ Word count: 687
♂ Mood: Depressed.
♂ Outfit: Same as previous post
♂ Lyrics / Quote: Shipping up to Boston, Dropkick Murphys
♂ Illustrations: None
♂ Comment / Informational links: Best song in the world.

[Ronan MacGuinness]

Caffreys, Harp, Kilkenny on tap,
The Guinness pie & that cabbage crap,
The ideal wannabee Paddy trap,
We'll call it an Irish pub

“So I see yeh're shippin' up t' Boston, eh?”

"Aye," Ronan said, " Could say it's returnin' to the hometown, really. Born and raised in Boston."


Ronan liked this gentleman, a true Irishman. He was to all appearances, damn fine a person. That was the sort he wanted to do business with. Honest, hardworking folk, like himself. The values he wanted his kids to learn, embodied right there. That included Mike Lane, who was his kid as much as his biological offspring could claim to be. It was the way of kin and kith, traditional to the core. Mike Lane may not be in the MacGuinness clan by birthright, but he was as good as in by Ronan's book.

“Where's y' god son? I take it 'e's with you?”

Didn't take long for Mike to answer on his own behalf, and Ronan was surprised that the two had met before. It seemed that all three men had at one point worked in the Watchers. What an odd twist of fate that was. Very odd, when he thought about it. Well, no matter. It was all the more a case of good people, then. The Watchers were on the right side of things, as far as Ronan could discern. And that was what mattered most to him.

“Yeh in the market f'r anything in particular? I can show yeh around the place. All th' magic 'appens upstairs. 'S where I keep all the fabric and sewin' supplies. The first floor is divided into th' bar and th' bespoke shop. Y' can choose the fabrics an colours y' want down here, an I can take yer measurements.”

Ronan considered, and hit upon what he was after. Maybe it was cliche, but he had long wanted something particularly fitting for special events, and with this being an Irishman's establishment, he knew just what to do. Maybe the request would be strange to Conall, maybe not.


"I'm thinkin' a custom suit for myself, and I think Mike should chose his own..." He paused, and ventured to inquire after what he had been thinking about, "Do you make kilts, by any chance?""